


Fifty lashes

by xsunny



Category: Joyeux Noël | Merry Christmas (2005)
Genre: Angst, Brief Mention of Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Post-Canon, Punishment, Whipping, Whump, World War I, hurt!Horstmayer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsunny/pseuds/xsunny
Summary: A few hours after the higher powersofficiallyfind out Nikolaus Sprink deserted, taking with him Anna Sørensen, the Military Police arrives to place Karl Horstmayer under arrest.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 21





	1. No good deed

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fan made fiction based on a movie. In no way this is intended to depict any real life matters. Any resemblance between anything in this work and real life is purely coincidental. 
> 
> For fiction purposes, the list used here was based on the Canadian WWI Military Offences list available at the Library and Archives Canada [site](https://www.bac-lac.gc.ca/eng/discover/military-heritage/first-world-war/courts-martial/Pages/courts-martial.aspx). No disrespect to any country or people intended. 
> 
> If any of the tags or subjects may trigger you, or make you feel uncomfortable, please don't read this story.

Sure as death and taxes, the bureaucratic lords of war couldn't and wouldn't accept the Christmas truce with the French and Scottish, although they also alleged no knowledge of something that certainly couldn't ever have happened. 

So the excuse to punish the inexcusable behaviour of a certain German platoon on Christmas Eve and following days would have to come through other subterfuges. 

And there were plenty available: not only the desertion of the famous opera singer Nikolaus Sprink had happened with no deterrent, but the also well known Anna Sørensen had left with him, and to the enemy's side, no less. 

Official documents were filled and sent stating no previous knowledge of his desertion and their escaping plans. And, in the vicious logic of the ones who called the shots, stating no previous knowledge when Sprink should already be on his way to a military prison meant omission by not correctly holding him in custody, Sprink being considered strangely enough a deserter or a prisoner, the definition varying to better suit the offences. 

The documents signed on the trenches also failed to acknowledge the arms, ammunition and equipment retrieved from no man's land, as it couldn't be explained how the German soldiers would have been able to retrieve them without sparking an offensive from the French and Scottish side. 

And if they could retrieve said omitted equipment with no casualties, they must have been corresponding with the enemy, disclosing their location and intent. Which led to the charges of deserting the post and throwing away the arms in the presence of the enemy, who must also have been able to retrieve arms, ammunition and equipment from no man's land. And that meant assisting the enemy, 

The list went on to cover a suspiciously vague description of the commanding officer and his men behaving in "a scandalous manner", which could mean from getting drunk on Christmas night up to displaying the Christmas trees above their trenches instead of inside. Even the cat who appeared every now and then meant one more tally mark on the chart.

The nitpicking went on for several topics, but the hidden gist consisted of making it clear that no one would _ever_ be allowed daring to fraternize with the enemy the way the platoon had, the truce being officially acknowledged or not.

In no possible way the commanding officer and his men would get lucky enough to find a way out with the loaded bureaucracy dice being thrown to decide their destiny after such trespass. 

The decision to punish exemplarily the ones involved would necessarily reckon breaking their spirit and asserting the higher ranking dominance, and no better way to do it than making an example of their commanding officer, someone they respected and liked. He would be the one paying for all mistakes committed on that fateful night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, our little JN fandom is reaching 50 stories on AO3!  
> (Of course a whumper would twist this number to... whump :evil grin:)


	2. In the trenches

The Military Policemen arrive at the trenches with the first rays of sun on an especially cold December morning two days after Christmas. Their posture radiate power and finality, and they're welcomed into the trenches by wary eyed soldiers who speak to them the bare minimum. 

Their duty for the day is bringing to the closest base the platoon commanding officer, and after asking around they are taken to the presence of one Karl Horstmayer. 

They find their man sitting at some crates drinking coffee with a few fellow soldiers. 

He stands up and salutes them, the others following the lead and standing at attention close to him.

"Good morning. I imagined you'd come sooner than later."

"Oberleutnant Horstmayer, you'll have to accompany us to the base." One of them commands in lieu of a greeting. 

The Oberleutnant nods, finishing the rest of the mostly cold coffee with a gulp and handing the mug to one of his men. Usually he’d have offered some to the newcomers, but surely it wasn't the occasion - not that they'd want what they had at the trenches in the best of days, anyway.

"Do you have a warrant?" Horstmayer questions in a neutral tone. 

It's all very professional and impersonal, the official paper exchanging hands and being rapidly read. Curt and precise words are exchanged, no use of force made necessary. The only moment of real tension comes when the Oberleutnant goes for his sidearm to handle it to his second in command instead of being relieved of it by the MPs themselves. 

The moment he calmly opens his greatcoat and reaches for it, both MPs' hands automatically go to their holsters, fast. 

Horstmayer doesn't flinch, his only sign of awareness of what his action has caused being the way he slows down his movements. He keeps looking at both men as he hands the gun grip first to the same official who was previously sitting close to him, and to whom he also handed the mug. 

The MPs visibly relax. "Do you have any other weapons in your possession?" 

He answers with a curt and honest, "No."

The MPs look at each other, reaching the silent decision of not searching the Oberleutnant for guns in front of his men. The slip in protocol surely would compensate the risk of raising a reaction from the loyal soldiers, some close enough to be a problem should they disagree with the treatment being dispensed to their commanding officer. The poor man would already be punished enough as it was, if the overview in the warrant was to be trusted - not necessary adding to his humiliation even more. 

"You are in charge, Jörg." Horstmayer addresses his second in command with a sliver of sentiment visible under the forced neutrality the situation makes necessary. "Good luck, my friend." 

They exchange a whole silent conversation in a matter of moments while Horstmayer places his cap in place and they quickly salute.

"We'll be waiting for you, Oberleutnant Horstmayer." Jörg is not as good at hiding his anger and the worry for his superior officer and friend, taking him a lot of effort not to fight the MPs.

The other men nearby show their discontentment quite clearly, and Horstmayer shakes his head to them before they do something that might endanger the platoon even more.

"Should I take my personal belongings with me?" The barely concealed question there being, ' _Will I be delivered back here when you are finished with me?_ '

"It's not necessary, sir." 

Before the atmosphere becomes even worse, Horstmayer gestures to them, "Lead the way." 

They post themselves one in front and the other by Horstmayer's side, the latter behind him when the corridors become too narrow for two people to pass at once.

The three of them walk briskly up to the end of the trenches, life timidly starting in the cold December morning for most of the men. 

Both MPs silently admire how the Oberleutnant would be awake and ready at such an early hour, even if not previously informed of their arrival. In their experience, officers were commonly the worst while taken into custody, tending to view themselves as better than their men and the Military Police, arrogant people who would hinder the procedures and scorn at their protocols, belittling and threatening them.

It comes to them as a surprise then when Horstmayer calmly acknowledges their previous actions. "Thank you for not searching me in front of my men."

They mumble something inaudible in return, but deep inside they think there are still good men in service.


	3. Journey to the base

Horstmayer has a brief moment of childish awe at seeing the brand new staff car that would take him to the nearest base behind the line. The MPs pretend not to notice how he lets his hand rest a bit longer than necessary on the door, or when his fingers gently touch the leather of the seat. 

He is instructed by them to sit in the backseat opposite to the driver, one of them sitting by his side. Horstmayer is vaguely aware they are conceding him the courtesy of showing no signs of suspicion of his behavior, which translates to no restraints or a gun aimed at his direction. He doesn't expect that courtesy to still be there once they reach their destination, but it helps to improve his mood, somewhat.

"So, did you like it?" The MP driving lightly taps the steering wheel after they hit the main road.

"Yes, it's- it's impressive." Horstmayer lets careful admiration show on his voice. "First time I see this model up close."

"Brand new, this is one of its first drivings." The MP closer to him in the backseat allows a small smile, and continues in a conspiratorial tone, "We have been switching, so we can both drive this beauty."

"We took a higher up to a close by position, and he asked us to bring it back to the base. He was afraid the car might get stuck in the middle of all this mud, or get damaged somehow. Imagine our luck." The driver adds.

Horstmayer nods. It is his luck, too, after all. Even if it's for the benefit of the car.

The few words exchanged with the MPs after that are polite, if restricted in content. They occasionally talk between the two of them, allowing Horstmayer some semblance of normality during their trip, almost as if he could forget where he was going to, and why.

He lets his mind wander at how such a beautiful machine could exist in the middle of a war, the shocking and abyssal distance between the triumph of human intellect and creativity versus the horrors of the trenches. How could they as a species go so high as to design that car, but also so low as to develop the heavy artillery weapons they had used every single day for the last five months...

But the connection isn't that difficult to pinpoint; money, and power. Horstmayer would still have been working in a car factory himself should the war had not started, oblivious to how civilized people could be turned into savages killing each other for their countries, ordered around by men who couldn't care less about their destiny, only the results their blood brought mattering to them. 

This vehicle itself is merely another token of how alienated the higher ups are from the reality they're living in, as much as the Christmas trees his men took hours to pack in the trenches. 

He and his men, they are all pawns with no substantial value to the ones in power positions. Those ones are so distanced from the day to day horrors that it sounded possible, plausible even, that this car would be more valuable to them than any of their lives. They aren't people, after all; they are numbers, pins on maps, disposable pieces on a board game.

What they have lived the previous days, though, that had been real and true, almost pure in a sense. They have been persons once again, with lives, families, histories. No higher up would ever know the feeling of what they had shared, nor be able to take it away from them, no matter how much they tried.

His men had suffered enough already, and deserved those few hours of respite in the company of the French and Scots, whatever price he would have to pay for it then. Whatever he was going to face next would be unjust, yes, but justified. He just hoped he would be able to join them again, in whatever capacity he was left after his punishment. They have started it together, they should finish it together.

Horstmayer thinks once more about the truce and its implications, the first buildings of the city appearing around them. The rest of the trip is uneventful and mostly silent.

Once they arrive at the base, Horstmayer deliberately slows his movements, letting his hands encircle each other on his back non-threateningly the moment he leaves the car, showing in no uncertain terms he'd not be a problem to the men escorting him. 

His behavior is acknowledged, and he's led inside by the MPs with their hands hovering over their holsters, but still thankfully in no restraints. And, as the documents are checked at the entrance, he risks one last look at the car - no machine made to harm others would ever be as beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments. :) 
> 
> Did some research on cars from that era, they were gorgeous. Left the brand and model open to the imagination, so each one can imagine their favorite.
> 
> And again, Horstmayer behaving like such an honoured man is sooo much fun to write... I can't even.


	4. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting here, things get graphic. Please, mind the update on the tags and proceed at your own discretion.  
> And once again: this is a work of fiction and not related to anything in real life.  
> 

"Undress." 

" _Entschuldigung_?" 

The officer behind the counter doesn't look impressed. "Undress, waist up. And the washroom is in that door. I suggest you use it before the proceedings."

Horstmayer looks around, but the other two officers at their desks keep doing whatever they're doing and pay him no attention. Military bureaucrats, as distanced from real life as they come, he thinks bitterly.

He refrains from making any comment, though, and decides there should be no problem inverting the order, going to the washroom first and removing his uniform while still inside. No one stops him. 

Once inside, he takes off his greatcoat first, followed by the leather gloves. Cold instantly reaches him, and his freezing fingers fumble with the field jacket's endless buttons, the wam metal of his Iron Cross resting in the inner pocket a small consolation. 

Following what he'd been doing before any dangerous situation since the war started, he removes his wedding band and entwines it with the ribbon of his medal, as if protecting the love for his wife from any horror, keeping their love untainted from dreadful memories. 

Finally, he removes his dress shirt and undershirt, unsure if the tags should stay. He decides it shouldn't matter.

He comes out of the washroom holding the folded pieces of clothing, his cap on top. The men sitting by their desks don't bat an eye. He wonders if they know he still doesn't know what they are going to do to him. They probably don't care.

"Follow me." A young MP guard who wasn't there before instructs him with a hard stare and a hand over his holster. Horstmayer follows without uttering a word, the bundle of clothes he's holding close to his body a quantum of warmth in the chilly winter air. 

The guard guides him through barely lit corridors with high windows, and then down a set of stairs to a walled external area. Horstmayer gets the impression the building might have been used by some government department before the war, all straight lines and lack of any superfluous embellishment screaming bureaucratic building. 

The patio area has some trees and benches, unkempt grass mostly covered in snow. A chill runs down his spine, not from cold alone anymore, when his eyes cast over the post standing close to a tree, a contraption with restraints attached to it. 

So this is it, he thinks. What they've decided to do with him is quite clear now, no bare wall for the firing squad, no gallows in sight - whipping doesn't sound so bad in comparison. 

An older man in a Sergeant uniform joins them shortly and exchanges a salute with the MP. He looks at Horstmayer with not unkind eyes, as if trying to recognize an old acquaintance. 

"It’s Oberleutnant Horstmayer, isn't it?" The older man asks, and Horstmayer answers with a curt nod. "You developed quite the reputation, young man." 

Horstmayer isn't sure what he should, or if he should, answer to that, so he just stares back and keeps what he hopes is a neutral stance. 

"I'm the one in charge of the disciplinary punishments. You can put your belongings on that bench." He points to one of the few not covered in snow, and Horstmayer does as he’s told. 

When he's back from the short walk, the Sergeant states without preamble, "Fifty lashes." He lets the information sink in, watching for any unexpected reaction. "To be received at once. You'll receive medical treatment afterwards, if necessary." 

Horstmayer goes pale, unconsciously crossing the arms he'd been letting by his sides over his chest. 

The guard scoffs, and the Sergeant looks sternly at him. The younger man mutters an almost inaudible 'sorry'.

"Have you read his offences yet?" The Sergeant addresses the MP. 

As the answer is negative, the guard is instructed to read the extensive list of offences, some true to what happened, others erroneous perceptions of what had transpired during their ephemeral truce.

_"... deserting the post; throwing away arms in the presence of the enemy, assisting the enemy, corresponding with the enemy; disobeying lawful orders from a superior officer; assisting a person to desert, and/or failing to report a person known to intend to desert; behaving in a scandalous manner; releasing a prisoner or allowing a prisoner to escape; knowingly altering or making false statements on official documents; falsely filling out documents or refusing to give accurate reports relating to arms, ammunition and equipment; disclosing the location of forces, bases or operations to the enemy..."_

Horstmayer wonders if he was lucky not to be shot on sight, the firing squad or hanging much more adequate punishments to the extensive list of grave offences - real or not. Fifty lashes... Surely he would suffer, probably be incapacitaded for a long time, but it's a bearable price to pay to keep his life, dignity be damned. 

Maybe they can't waste any resources, even thirsty as they are for payback. Or maybe it's as simple as them not wanting to deal with the papers of an execution that proves in no uncertain terms that something did happen on the trenches on Christmas. 

The thought gives him some solace, but then it dawns on Horstmayer: fifty lashes might not only incapacitate, or hurt like anything he's ever experienced; that could probably kill him, depending on how administered. Or afterwards, by infection. What if they did want to get rid of him, but in a much more insidious way.

He feels goosebumps all over his body, especially where the small snowflakes touch his skin. He feels dizzy, his heart beating so fast he believes it could burst out of his chest.

"Easy, Oberleutnant," Horstmayer feels a warm gloved hand around his arm steadying him. The Sergeant continues. "Let's be done with it already." 

Horstmayer nods, disoriented, and is led obediently to the wooden post.

His thoughts fly to the list of offences as his wrists are secured in the freezing cold manacles. For some reason, _behaving in a scandalous manner_ is hilarious, in a somber way he can't quite describe. 

All in all, what the whole list claims is that being humane and doing the right thing, even if for just a few days in a cold field away from everything, had, in the hands of the powers that be, turned into a monster matter, as if reaching out to another human being was worse a crime than killing indiscriminately. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a piece of cloth being tied over his eyes none too gently by the MP. 

“Oh, damn, I forgot the whip upstairs.” The Sergeant grumbles from afar. “I won’t go there just for it- goodness, my knees hurt in this weather.”

In his dazed state, Horstmayer can’t make much sense out of the words, the cold metal of the restraints attached to his wrists the single point of connection to the world right now.

“Hope you don’t mind, but we have to be resourceful, Oberleutnant.” The Sergeant's voice is coming closer to him.

"Sir?" The MP guard sounds incredulous at the lack of military protocol being shown by the older Sergeant. He's about to protest when the Sergeant cuts him out with a hand gesture. 

Horstmayer is lost at what's going on, then feels someone's hands encircling his waist, fumbling with his belt. The sensation of human contact, warm and so close, is almost unbearable.

He's stripped of his belt, and then some clothing is being pushed in the space between his body and his trousers, following the contour of his back. 

It's all over fast enough, and he's so shocked at what just happened that he doesn't fight the piece of leather being forced into his mouth by the same gentle hands that just removed his belt and placed the clothing. 

"Now we don't want to disturb the good people working here, do we?" The Sergeant's voice is strangely intimate, like, for some reason, the screams he'll prevent aren't for the benefit of the bureaucrats serving in the building alone.

Horstmayer can't decide if he should be annoyed by it or relieved. Of course he shouldn't disturb the bureaucrats trying to work, for he would scream soon enough if his previous encounters with military discipline were to be taken into account. He wonders if he did read the Sergeant intentions correctly, though. 

Then the Sergeant steps away, and he feels a full body shudder as the warmth leaves in its stead the sprinkles of falling snow on his bare torso. 

"Sir, I'll go get the whip for you in a mo-"

"Nonsense, that's not necessary. This belt here-" The Sergeant cracks the leather to test it, "Will be just fine." He doesn't pause when he asks, "Ready, Oberleutnant?"

Horstmayer takes a deep breath and lets his head fall between his raised arms. It's all he has time to do before the fast strike of leather on his bare back.

" _Eins_."

The surprise makes the pain on his back take some infinitesimal amount of time more to reach his nerve endings, but it does reach him soon enough, spreading from his upper back all through his body.

" _Zwei_."

Horstmayer instinctively bites into the rag in his mouth, a fleeting thought crossing his mind that it might save his teeth from breaking before another strike touches his skin, followed by another hitting him lower on his back.

" _Vier_." 

It's not unbearable yet, but soon will be, Horstmayer thinks bitterly during the next set of strikes, his eyes unwillingly tearing up. 

" _Sieben_."

The Sergeant blames aloud the lack of strength on his aging while delivering three lashes in quick succession, as if to prove himself wrong. He takes a pause at ten, and measures the red welts on the back of the man under his care. None had broken skin yet.

" _Zehn_."

After another round of cusses, the Sergeant changes the hand holding the leather. The next strikes come lacking strength and aim, and Horstmayer briefly wonders if the Sergeant is left-handed too, for the man is now cussing at his right hand with a passion and hitting him mostly on his right side. 

Two strikes almost entirely miss his body, and it's now clear the blows are not as hard with that hand.

"You should allow me to do it, sir," The MP guard comments, the ' _old man_ ' he barely suppresses in lieu of _'sir'_ almost audible. "It'd be faster."

"If I need your help, I'll let you know." The Sergeant cuts him while resuming the strikes. Again, they barely miss Horstmayer's body, only a small part of the belt touching his bruised side. 

By then, they are on fifteen, and Horstmayer could manage so far without screaming, though he's already audibly panting and shivering, the soaking of the blindfold another discomfort in the cold. 

" _Sechzehn_."

Some more cussing and lashes later, the Sergeant changes the hand holding the belt again. Horstmayer braces himself, but it's not enough to prepare him for the renewed pain. The quick succession of hits up to twenty come with a whole new strength, and in the haze of pain he recognizes a pattern: the Sergeant is trying not to hit the same place two times in succession, nor is he favoring one side. 

It helps, in the middle of all the pain being caused, to know there's no foul play. 

" _Fünfundzwanzig_. Congratulations, Oberleutnant, we reached the middle." The Sergeant announces, then stops for a few moments to complain again about his arm hurting and the need to switch sides with the belt.

Horstmayer hears it, and dully tries to calculate in which strike he started to scream, the sound muffled by the rag and the falling snow. Probably around the same number he'd started to cry in utter pain.

The respite is brief, though, and nothing prepares him for the onslaught of pain that comes crashing over him on the next lashes. He feels for the first time something warm spiralling from his back, very different from the cold sweat that broke on his skin on the very first lashes. 

They reach thirty quite fast after that, then it's like time extends itself forever, and fourty will never arrive. Horstmayer thinks he can't take it anymore as he sags against the wooden post. In some small and still coherent part of his mind he knows it could have been much worse, but the thought is drowned in pain. He's openly sobbing now, counting more and more on the shackles on his wrists to hold him up.

" _Fünfunddreißig_." The exertion shows clearly on the Sergeant's voice. 

"Sir, maybe you should allow me to continue." For the first time the MP guard sounds really concerned with the Sergeant's wellbeing.

"Don't worry, we're almost there." Whom the Sergeant's addressing is not clear as he dries his forehead with a handkerchief. "You probably should continue, yes, finish this already." He points to the now bleeding bound man in front of him, "Now's the time we need to be especially careful, though, for shock's setting in. No sense in losing a good soldier if we can prevent it."

The MP nods, and when he turns to look at the shivering man tied to the post, it's like he's seeing a whole new scene unfolding in front of him. _Soldier_. Suddenly, his contempt for the prisoner and the lack of military protocol from the Sergeant lessens, as if they shouldn't have been important from the start. For the first time he truly sees not an offender of law and order being rightfully punished, but a man in pain, a peer suffering for his wrongdoings, his penalty stipulated by people who were not _there_ , whatever _there_ meant.

The change of perspective reflects clearly on the younger man's face and posture, clear to the seasoned older Sergeant. Hans senses the moment Jürgen finally starts to understand the meaning of what they're doing, the weight of punishing another human being never too light.

"Sir, I..." The young MP starts, then stops, emotion shown plainly on the few words. "I don't know if I can..." 

"I know, son." Hans reverently places the belt on Jürgen's hands. "I know. And that's why I trust you to understand the burden it is to be the one holding it." 

From the distant place where his mind has slid into to endure the pain being inflicted to his body, Horstmayer hears the dialogue, and feels something has changed. The disorientation and the slow, dreamlike slide away from direct pain come accompanied by a sense of certainty that he'll survive. 

" _Sechsunddreißig_." The first lash that comes after the pause comes on a different voice, with a different finality. It's like the three men standing on the snow are certain it's only a matter of time for it to be over, now. 

Horstmayer is barely conscious, but even in his state, it's clear that, as the Sergeant before, the MP guard must be holding back. His last coherent thought before becoming unresponsive is to wonder if they've ever been whipped, or belted, if they know how a strike delivered in anger would hurt even more than one delivered with compassion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratitude for the comments and kudos. :)
> 
> Sometimes, life makes people appear as if out of nowhere, help us and/or teach us something, then go away. 
> 
> In a terrible sense, Horstmayer was spared an even worse treatment when put in the hands of Hans and Jürgen, and all the suffering did serve to teach something to those around him, too, as if it wasn't all in vain. 
> 
> I also tried to convey all this with the peculiar behavior shown first from the Sergeant, then from the MP guard. When a new type of understanding dawns on young Jürgen, and he gets a new perspective of what's happening, that's when his and Hans names are first shown. (And the whip wasn't 'forgotten upstairs' at all ;))


End file.
